Hannah Alexander: A Killing Frost

The first book in the River Dance series, 2008

This is an exciting time as we leave Hideaway behind and begin a new series in a new town, new location, new characters. We have received nothing but encouragement from our editor, Joan Marlow Golan, and the talented people who work with her: Krista Stroever, Lee Quarfoot, Megan Lorius, Sarah McDaniel, Maureen Stead, Amy Jones and Diane Mosher. From editing the inside to covering the outside of our novels, we have received top-notch care and professionalism. What an amazing team!

Thanks to our agent, Karen Solem, for her constant challenge for us to dig more deeply.

Thanks to the friends who helped us brainstorm this book on a cold January morning: Colleen and Dave Coble, Nancy Moser, Judy Miller, Rene Gutteridge, Deborah Raney, Doris Elaine Fell, Dan and Steph Higgins (Stephanie Grace Whitson to her many adoring readers).

Thanks to Mom, Lorene Cook, for her constant love, prayers, encouragement and endless promotion for our books.

Thanks to Mother, Vera Overall, whose love for her son and pride in his accomplishments is never-ending.

Thanks to Tim Puchta, of Puchta Winery in Hermann, Missouri, who was a great help to us as we researched last year’s killing frost in wine country along the Missouri River. Any mistakes in this book are not his fault. He’s the expert. We’re simply enthusiasts.

As always, our deepest appreciation goes to God, who has placed the blessing of stories in our lives.

Doriann Streeter had never been kidnapped before, but if she’d ever tried to imagine what it might be like-which she hadn’t-she’d have been wrong. She would’ve expected to be brave, but right now she couldn’t stop shaking. If she weren’t trying so hard just to breathe, she’d be surprised that she’d never expected anything like this, because she had a good imagination.

Her hands shook as she clenched them in her lap.

What had she done wrong? Why was she stuck inside a stinking, rattly old pickup truck between two dirty people with black beneath their fingernails, who reeked so badly she thought she might puke?

And what if she did puke? It could happen.

She dared a glance at the dirty man’s pocket. It was where he’d stuck her cell phone when it rang. He’d grabbed it, turned it off, shoved it into his pocket with an ugly chuckle, nearly driving the truck into the ditch when he forgot to watch the road.

Some things just never occurred to a girl.

The call had to have been Mom checking up on her. Or Aunt Renee. Please, God, make them worry when I don’t answer. Please!

They knew she always answered her calls, even when she was up to something she knew they didn’t want her to be doing.

She gagged again at the smell that filled the hot cab of the pickup. She had a decision to make. Get sick in the truck and get killed, or ask for some fresh air and get killed.

“Could you open a window or something?” she asked finally, after working up her nerve to speak. She hated the way her voice shook. Not strong, the way she’d always thought she’d sound during a crisis, but scared, like a little kid. She hated that these two loser bullies scared her.

Neither of them said a word.

Doriann crossed her arms, holding them tightly against her stomach.

The windows stayed up.

This was not the time to throw a tantrum the way her cousin Ajay would do.

She dared a glance to her right at the skinny woman called Deb, who had teeth missing.

Maybe it was better that these two bullies didn’t listen to her. If they saw her as a threat, then she’d be tied up and thrown into the back of the truck. But since she was just a kid to them-as if an eleven-year-old who’d already graduated from her trainer bra and had a 153 IQ could possibly be considered just a kid-they figured they could handle her between the two of them.

Doriann’s face still stung from the slaps the woman had given her for screaming. Tears had dried on Doriann’s face. The farther the dirty man drove from Kansas City, the faster the tears had come for a while. She’d even been afraid to ask for a tissue, so she’d had to wipe her nose on the sleeve of her jacket.

Can’t panic. Don’t let them see how scared you are. Think of something else.

Deb’s teeth, maybe. Deb was a stupid name for a kidnapper. Deborah was a name from the Bible, a judge and prophetess in the Old Testament. Deborah was Mom’s hero, because she “held a position of honor in a world that honored only men.”

Good thing Judge Deborah was in heaven now. She didn’t need to know how her nickname was being besmirched down here in Missouri.

Besmirched? Yes, that was the word.

They passed a road sign on I-70, and Doriann felt her eyes go buggy. Could that be right? Hadn’t they just left Kansas City less than an hour ago? According to the sign, they were almost to Columbia. Halfway across Missouri. She knew this road well, because she traveled it with Mom and Dad whenever they went to River Dance to visit Grandpa and Grandma Mercer-which was never often enough for Doriann.

But if that sign was right, that meant they’d been on the road for two hours!

How could that be? During homeschool study hour, Aunt Renee always said that time crept by when a person was in a state of high stress, so if Doriann and her cousins would just relax and be quiet, they could complete their lessons in half the time, then go out and play.

This wasn’t right, because time was passing way too fast, and if Doriann was any more stressed, this stinky cloth seat would be drenched with her pee.

Maybe she was in the middle of a bad dream.

The road blurred, and Doriann blinked. She couldn’t cry again. The woman and the man called Clancy might enjoy it. They were the kind of people who probably liked to make kids cry. Clancy would laugh at Doriann’s tears, and Deb was probably waiting for a reason to slap her again.

And so, as they drove past the sign for Columbia, Doriann counted billboards and reworded them to make them rhyme, and added the mileage in her head, while taking slow, steady breaths until her vision cleared.

They’d just passed the exit to Columbia Regional Hospital, leaving the city behind, when the corroded old scanner in the truck’s open glove compartment hissed and spat, and then a tinny male voice said, “We have report of a…pft…pft…pft…male and female, possible hostage situation…pft…last seen two hours ago in the vicinity of Swope Park, possibly headed east on I-70…pft…pft…pedestrian reported seeing a child being forced into the pickup-”

“That would be me,” Doriann said, voice wobbling like a baby’s. “You should let me-”

Deb slapped a dirty hand over Doriann’s mouth. Hard. “Shut up!”

Doriann blinked to keep the tears from falling. She breathed slowly. Tried to stay calm. Not panic. Who’d have thought it would be so hard?

“…pft…FBI’s most wanted couple…at least six already dead…possible sighting at a convenience mart at exit…pft…could be en route toward St. Louis.”

“Six.” Clancy spat on the floor.

Doriann grimaced in spite of her fear. Eeww!

“People can’t even do their job right. The count’s at least nine. No, wait, that’s eleven.”

Deb took her hand from Doriann’s mouth and reached across her to smack the man on the side of the head. “Didn’t I tell you not to grab the brat?” Her voice sounded like the crackle of a campfire built with green cedar branches. “And I told you not to stop for gas along the interstate!”